


All Roads lead to Holmes

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Greg remembers Sherlock, Gregory Lestrade/Sherlock Holmes, John and Greg try to cope with the Fall, John remembers Sherlock, Lost Love, M/M, Multi, Pining Greg Lestrade, Pining John Watson, Sherlock is a good man, True Love, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-03 05:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15812850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: How do John and Greg cope with the Fall ?





	1. Chapter 1

How the mighty had fallen.

One Consulting Detective fell off the roof of St. Bart’s and like dominoes there followed one ex- Army Doctor falling off the map of his life and one Detective Inspector falling off the purpose of his existence.

All for one and one for all.

When Sherlock fell it was like the mountain climbers tied by a safety rope. They had all been tied to each other, perhaps bound even stronger than mountain climbers are, and the entire line had collapsed. Plummeted into shocked oblivion; their vision and thoughts blurred by the avalanche of anger, sorrow, grief, guilt……… and most of all the things unsaid that now whispered into their brains every night.

Burrowed little tunnels into the amygdala and fed themselves on morsels of regret.

Vicious tragic little whispers. Big little secrets.

_He will never know…….now he will never know……_

_._

_._

It had taken three months for Greg to even realize that he was still alive, that he had been demoted, that everyone looked at him like he was an alien and that he had taken to almost talking to himself in the evenings, over a drink that he nursed at home, alone.

Going to the pubs had become impossible. Anyone else’s company intolerable. He was grateful, in a way, for losing his rank, since it stopped him from going to crime scenes and waiting with bated breath for a great black coat to come swishing its way in.

Eventually, some weeks after he figured out that he was still living, he had decided that he ought to do right by John.

He needed to explain to him what had happened that evening when he had come to 221B for the arrest. How he had genuinely thought this was all part of the drama and chaos that always seemed to surround the genius and that the mis- understanding would eventually blow over, with the British Government doing some discreet behind- the- scenes negotiations.

It had never occurred to him that it would lead to this……….this shattering of their lives into so many pieces, on the pavement, stained red with blood from the smashed skull of a genius who made life about more than just living.

Whose very existence made their own lives larger than life itself, whose incandescent brilliance shone brighter than the sun, who had sparkled through the prism of their lives and scattered so many rainbows in his wake………

_Who would never know…………who would now never ever know……._

_._

_._

He picked up the phone and texted John Watson. He owed him that much. After all, he knew Sherlock so much more intimately ( _how much more intimately?_ he wondered….) and he would be grieving too.

So after some back and forth and postponements from both sides, the Detective and the Doctor finally met at a randomly chosen pub (far away from Bart’s and the Yard and Angelo’s and all the places that they instinctively wanted to avoid being around.)

Greg had reached first and was already nursing a drink when John walked in, tentatively, stopping at the door, rocking on the heels of his shoes as though he may still change his mind and turn around, when he caught Greg’s watchful eyes with his own hesitant ones. Greg nodded at him and John made his way to the table, slowly..

Greg had cleared his throat and said “I am sorry mate, I had no choice….I had no idea it would lead to ….”

John had just nodded sharply as if to say—it’s fine but let’s not talk about it.

They had two rounds of drinks after that and said nothing much to each other really

What was left to say? They both knew the answers to all the questions they could possibly ask.

How are you? _Devastated._

How is work? _I hate it._

Do you miss him? _With every breath._

_._

_._

And so they sat there, with an aching void inside their universe, which was slowly sucking away everything they had gathered around themselves in their brief co-existence with him.

The debris of their broken hearts, stormy days and crazy nights, cups of tea, swirls of cigarette smoke, the sound of footsteps pounding down the streets of London, 243 types of tobacco ash, insults, deductions, clues, chemicals, strains of a violin, gloves thrown on the sofa, and a long blue scarf, all slowly tumbling down the rabbit hole…….latitude…..and ……..longitude………..falling further and further down…….but there was no place for a landing.

_Probably that is why they were still alive. It’s not the fall that kills you after all………_

Their compass had been re-set and all arrows now pointed to that moment in time when the world as they knew it had come to an end.

So they sat, like proper adults, sipping their drinks, glancing at the TV showing a football match, very composed, looking for all the world like a couple of old friends hanging out, with no hint of the screaming agony they held inside their hearts.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, there was very little to disturb their plans now was there? No one to demand 'If inconvenient, come anyway'.   
> So, if they wanted to meet at 7 pm on Friday, well, that is when they would find themselves at the pub.  
> Undisturbed.

The second time they met was a couple of weeks later when John texted Greg. Even a silent co-mourning was better than staring at your gun when you woke up at 3 am, sweating and shouting from a nightmare.

This time they talked a little more. John was limping a bit again but Greg didn’t ask him about it. Greg had gone almost fully grey in a matter of the last few months but John didn’t mention it. They had both lost at least 10 pounds each but they didn’t deduce anything from it. They were British men of a certain vintage, so they spoke about the weather and the lateness of the trains and buses and glanced at the football match playing on the telly and commented on the scores.

Eventually it became a routine and they tried to meet up every Friday, if possible.

Well, there was very little to disturb their plans now was there? No one to demand _If inconvenient, come anyway._ No dashing off behind a madman chasing criminals, no tending to scratches and wounds and keeping someone from being BORED. No exploding kitchens and no eyeballs in the microwave. No deluge of text messages. Nothing at all to disturb the ordinary, regular pace of life, as lived out by millions of ordinary (happy?) people across the city.

So, if they wanted to meet at 7 pm on Friday, well, that is when they would find themselves at the pub.

Undisturbed.

Ha. That was an ironic term. Undisturbed. They were both more disturbed on the inside than anyone had the right to be. One had seen his best friend jump from a roof after ‘confessing’ to being a fraud. And the other one had arrested him earlier and essentially put him on the fast track to the rooftop.

_And now he will never know…… how will he ever know…………._

.

.

Three months and 10 such pub ‘dates’ later John cleared his throat and asked Greg if the next Friday they could meet at the flat instead or……’At your place if you want?’

(Surely they were not ‘dates’ were they? John remembered a conversation with Sherlock when he had told him a date was when you went out with someone you like and had fun and Sherlock had responded with innocent confusion—But that is what I meant. _Oh Sherlock. Now you will never know_ …….. _how will you ever know_….)

John had continued to live at 221B as a stubborn flipping of his finger to the universe, daring it to get him to abandon this last remaining post of Sherlock’s existence.

“I worry about drinking too much Greg. My family history……”

“Yeah,” Greg said good- naturedly. “I have just about managed to go off cigarettes” (and he absently rubbed the nicotine patch on his right arm……like he was remembering it on someone else’s arm too), and I would also like to stay a ‘user’ and not an addict.”

He shook his head with a hint of a fond smile.

John looked at him sharply. _Had he just cracked a joke in memory of Sherlock?_

Greg looked back at him, steady and strong.

“It is better than forgetting” he said, in response to the unspoken question.

He paused a beat. “And Baker Street should be fine.”

.

.

So their weekly ‘get together’ (not-dates) shifted to 221B Baker Street.

Greg had climbed the steps slowly and thoughtfully that first day. Remembering the last time he had climbed up those stairs and what had been the aftermath.

_I am so, so sorry Sherlock. How could I have known?_

_And now you will never know…………_

It had been a good idea to shift the location because now they consumed more tea than alcohol. Sometimes they ordered takeaway, sometimes Greg or John picked up food on the way.

Also, sitting in the living room of the flat meant they could casually reminisce about the one who was missing (and missed. _Oh so much_ ), triggered by something they saw lying around and not have to hide the fact that they didn’t need any reminders to want to talk about him.

‘Remember the way he solved the case of the ………..’ yeah, they sure did. And how he had wanted Greg to take the credit but they both knew it would last only till John posted his blog and then everyone would know who did what and how. John had grinned conspiratorially at that memory ( _sorry Greg!)_ and Greg gave a wry half smile. ( _Bastards, both of you.)_

_._

‘Remember what he said to…..’ and yes, they did, because they had cringed at the time but in retrospect it had saved them two days of polite enquiry and justice had been served faster.

‘Remember how he …………..’ mmhmm, _of course_ they both did. They had been there. They had heard the tongue lashing and had also been at the receiving end of it only too often.

‘You are thinking too loudly Lestrade’.

‘Take another taxi John, I need to think.’

They wondered what he would say to them now.

Sitting here in silence, thinking _so _ loudly that they are surprised Mrs Hudson doesn’t come up complaining about the noise.

.

.

‘Remember the time he……..’ one of them would start and the other one would smile slowly, remembering that episode and what happened before and after, earlier and later.

All the layers and interlocking details of their lives being teased out in the slowest possible post mortem they had ever witnessed.

Cut open the chest slowly. Easy does it.

Remove the heart. Careful with the broken fragments. Gently weigh it. Heavy isn’t it?

Slice open the lungs that forgot to breathe sometimes.

Dissect the brains and scoop out the memories. Examine them under a microscope. Twist them around to make sure you see all the sides.

Then stich it all back again.

Keep it clean and presentable for the public viewing.

 

_But he will never ever know…….._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Greg”. John asks carefully, slowly. “What was your relationship with Sherlock before I knew him?”

Since the Big Bang, time has moved forward relentlessly, like an arrow, indifferent to the joys and sorrows and desires of the insignificant creatures milling around the pale blue dot in the middle of nowhere.

Hearts are broken. Everyone dies. Caring is not an advantage.

Somehow an entire year has passed and though neither of them mentions the date, that evening Greg seems to be more melancholy and John more distracted. By unspoken agreement they set aside the teacups that day and pull out that bottle hidden away in the lower kitchen cupboard.

After all, who drinks tea at a wake?

And it is a wake of sorts isn’t it? Even if there are only two mourners left at this point.

“So”, Greg said finally, when the silence has become so heavy that he needs to make an effort to breathe. “What are your plans?”

He doesn’t even know what it is exactly that he is asking.

_When will you move on? Will you ever move on? Can we ever move on?_

_What do we do next till he never comes back?_

_How do you intend to pass the time between now and eternity?_

John takes a deep shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. He looks at Greg and looks away.

“I love him”, he says.

He turns back to see the flicker of confusion in Greg’s eyes.

“Yes. Sherlock. Yes in the present tense. His absence only made my love stronger. I cannot think of anything else. Anyone else.”

John’s voice which had been trembling with unshed tears at the first sentence has now become firm with the declaration. As though saying it out loud to another person made it more real, even if, devastatingly enough, it had not been said to the one person he wanted to say it to………..he should have said it to.

_And he will never know now………..how will he ever know?!_

Greg sighed and nodded his head. “I know how it is. He can consume you.”

John looked at him with a flicker of interest. _This was new. Not the melancholy but this……….was it a confession?_ He clears his throat.

“Greg”. He asks carefully, slowly. “What was your relationship with Sherlock before I knew him?”

“Relationship?” said Greg, with a sharp laugh. “That’s a good word for it. Who knows John? He turned up at a crime scene the first time I saw him. High but brilliant. Solved it with clues he seemed to have breathed in from the air by the looks of it. We ended up with some kind of an agreement later that I would call him when needed if he could stay off the drugs. Sometimes he could. Sometimes he couldn’t.”

He paused for a breath, remembering. “I kept him at my flat when I could, and at the hospital when he needed it. He would turn up once in a while at my flat, sometimes even while sober, and would demand tomato soup out of a can. Don’t ask. Some childhood comfort food clearly. Predictable taste and texture. You know how fussy he was about stuff like that…….. I didn’t care for it myself but I started stockpiling those bloody cans for him.”

John huffed a short laugh. _He knew what it was like to want to please the genius and keep him happy._

Greg continued. “He would pretend not to care about what I said but he would listen to me. He would rest and eat and sleep. Sometimes he would be glowing with some new idea or puzzle. And the endless questions he had about police procedurals, old cases, known criminals.” Greg shook his head with the fond memories. “It was like raising a toddler. Why? But why? Who? Really who? How? How do you know? Mycroft kept a close eye on him of course. I picked him up from a smack house three times in the first year. He managed to stay clean for almost a year after that and then crashed again. One time he was almost gone. It was the worst feeling I have ever had. Before…….before this….”

Greg looked at John.

Two mourners left at the wake.

“After that Mycroft sent him to rehab. When he came back it was almost four months later. He had cleaned up. He looked healthier. He was magnificent. He turned up at my crime scene in that bloody great coat of his looking like a superhero in a cape. He swished around, sneered, was rude and sarcastic.” Greg smiled slowly, warm with recollection. “Solved cases. Swanned off.”

John smiled back at him, nodding. _Yes, this was his Sherlock. Bloody show off and an utter pain but so bloody fantastic._

“He came by once to my flat, some months later. To tell me that my wife was having an affair. Again. Like I didn’t know.” Greg shrugged. “The way he looked at me that day….. I don’t know. There was something in it. Like he had come to tell me that only so that something else could be spoken.”

Greg leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Maybe I was just imagining it. He looked at me oddly when I told him I was still married. ‘Your loyalty is admirable Lestrade’ he said. ‘Misplaced but admirable’. ‘Yeah’ I had told him. ‘That’s monogamy for you in one sentence’.”

John has been listening quietly. Contemplatively. “You loved him.” He said softly.

Greg leaned back against the sofa. “Not sure I ever stopped.”

“Did…….did anything happen?” John asked hesitantly.

“Not while I was married.”

John looked at him, curious. _How come he had never known about any of this earlier?_

“One time after my divorce there was this day. We had stayed late at the Yard. It was winter and already dark and cold. I don’t know whether he even realized what he was doing. He was very tired, exhausted even. Not eating or sleeping while we were trying to close the case. You know how he gets. As we were about to leave my office, he stood very close to me, almost crowded me against the wall and sort of put his hand to my face. He looked at me with such intensity I thought my brain was going to catch fire. It could have turned into something.” Greg paused, remembering that day, still crystal clear in his mind.

“I am quite sure it would have but I held back because I was worried about how we would make it work. I mean we did work together, professionally. And he had stayed clean for the work. So..……if things went wrong, which I knew only too well about, would he go back to drugs? Having seen him almost die once, I was not sure I wanted to take that risk.” Greg rubbed his face. Suddenly tired. Realizing that he has been sharing things he has never spoken of to a single soul so far. Aware that he has been mixing the past and present tense all the time.

“And Sherlock is …….” He struggles to explain. It seemed like a foolish caution now in retrospect.

_He will never know now……..how will he ever know?_

He continued. “He is who he is. (‘ _Was’_ some part of his brain tried to correct half-heartedly. He ignored it _)_. He had no boundaries at the best of times……so I just stood there and waited. He probably deduced every argument and counter argument from my face and then he blinked and it was gone. For a while afterwards we just danced around the edges of something that could have been …….and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up again …….Then one day he got you along to the crime scene. And that was that.” Another mild shrug.

John came and sat next to him on the sofa and put his right hand out to him, palm up.

Two mourners at a wake.

Greg looked at it for a second before holding it. Not so much a handshake as an affirmation.

They held on for five seconds before letting go.

“So, since its confession time,” Greg asked him with a tip of his head, “What about you two?”

John looked sad. “Same story unfortunately. I valued his friendship too much to risk it. In case things went wrong I could not imagine going away and never being a part of his life again. I sacrificed the possibility of the greatest love of my life……for fear.”

“Look at us!” groaned Greg. “Two old men weeping over a lost love”.

_And he didn’t even know……..how would he ever have known?_

“Hey speak for yourself mate. I am not old.” said John with a cheeky grin.

“Oi watch it you! These grey hair I owe to Sherlock as much as to my age.” Greg retorted and he bumped his shoulder to John’s and got a bump back in return.

And that was that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg wondered how long they would be locked in this tableau of mourning. What was this thing they had? Was it polyamory if one of the three was a ghost and the other two had never gone beyond one handshake of solidarity?

But somehow things were so much easier between them after these confessions although nothing else happened.

Greg got it into his head that he needed to collect proof of Sherlock’s innocence. So he started looking into the old files and reviewing the cases, all on his own unpaid overtime of course. At least the bosses didn’t deny him access and that he was grateful for. His own meticulous notes were the saving grace ( _thank goodness for the bloody paperwork_ he thought!) and he put the pieces together and discussed with John when some details were foggy.

It took him over six months but eventually they had a very full wall at 221B with all the 78 cases surveyed and reviewed. As far as they were concerned it completely exonerated the fallen genius.

He had taken it up with the Chief Super who had initially avoided him on more than one occasion and then eventually agreed to at least listen to him while he travelled to the Ministry offices.

‘Ride with me Lestrade. Walk and talk.’

Something about Greg’s calm demeanour seemed to sway the senior man, more than an impassioned plea for justice would have. He agreed to review the former D.I’s findings and things were set in motion.

.

.

Like BC and AD, all time zones of their lives had been re-calibrated to Before and After. It was now almost two years After.

Greg wondered how long they would be locked in this tableau of mourning. _What was this thing they had? Was it polyamory if one of the three was a ghost and the other two had never gone beyond one handshake of solidarity?_

They had reached a comfort zone where they both recognized and accepted that they were each other’s fillers for the emptiness left behind in their lives and hearts by Sherlock.

_Would they ever allow anyone else to fill it?_

Greg had no idea but he felt as though the fog had lifted a bit and that he would _really_ like to have some sex sometime around now. He still got pulled when he sat at the bar on some lonely Saturdays and one day he finally said yes and enjoyed the sex as well as the company of the tall brunette who had been rather witty for an accountant.

The next time he met John after that it almost felt like he needed to confess. Haltingly he had told him.

John just nodded and said “Well good for you mate. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Happy,” said Greg looking into his glass. “Yeah. That.”

Then he looked at John. “What about you John? I know we don’t talk about this kind of stuff but well…..”

John rolled in his eyes in a perfect imitation of the missing one. “Yes Greg!! For a reason!! _Jesus_!”

Greg had grinned at him then and said “Well let me know anytime you need help”.

“Bloody hell Greg. Are you flirting with me??” John had asked, pretending to be mildly affronted.

“Oh for heaven’s sake John, I meant help getting a date!” Greg had protested.

But they both knew that there had been things unsaid and some sparks had been lit but it far from being a forest fire. They could choose to wait and watch it burn ….slowly for now.

It was still too close. It still seemed too soon.

Only 700 days had passed.

Two revolutions around the sun. Two mourners left at the wake.

Too soon. Too soon.

.

.

The first posters were seen across London that weekend.

I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.

.

.

The Chief Super called Greg to his office a few weeks later and officially dismissed the charges against the Consulting Detective as well as reinstated him.

The first call Greg made was to John. When there was silence at the other end of the line he was worried.

‘John? You there? You ok?’

“Thank you,” John said, his voice suddenly choked. “Thank you Greg. Well done. He would have been so proud.”

“No he wouldn’t have been,” said Greg, trying to cheer him up. “He would have said ‘You are an idiot Graham, go away’.”

And they had both laughed.

_But he will never know…..how will he ever know….._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night he paused outside Sherlock’s bedroom the way he did every night. Tonight he placed his palm against the door, intending to push it open and just take a look but it was still too soon.
> 
> Too raw. Too terrible. Too much.
> 
> So he just rested his forehead against the door, at a spot which had been worn smooth by this action of his, every night for the past two years.

The next day John decided to start writing his blog again. He typed painstakingly using one finger of each hand and by the time it was midnight, he had written about the posters and the official decision and he closed with saying -----Justice may have been done finally but that will not bring him back. I still miss him every single day. He was and is the best thing to have happened in my life.

_Please Sherlock, do this for me. Please don’t be dead. One miracle. That is all I ask of you._

.

.

That night he paused outside Sherlock’s bedroom the way he did every night. Tonight he placed his palm against the door, intending to push it open and just take a look but it was still too soon.

Too raw. Too terrible. Too much.

So he just rested his forehead against the door, at a spot which had been worn smooth by this action of his, every night for the past two years.

Then he went up the stairs and slept fitfully.

.

.

The next day the blog counter was rolling up almost every minute and by the time he came home from the clinic it had been read by 20,000 people and the counter was still rolling.

John looked at it and almost cried in frustration. _Why couldn’t they have had this kind of support before Sherlock decided to end it all? Why had the genius tried to make them believe he was a fraud?_

It still made no sense to him at all.

_And now what is the use when he will never know? How will he ever know….._

.

.

That night he was more restless than he had been for a long time. He kept waking up and dozing off almost every hour. Eventually at 4 am he decided to just give up on it and go make himself a cup of tea. He climbed down the stairs, softly, even though there had been no one to disturb in the downstairs bedroom for the past 800 days.

He stepped into the living room to make his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair.

.

.

He was sitting there. Eyes bright, almost nervous. Body so tense like a coiled spring. He looked so alien, like he didn’t belong and at the same time like he had never left.

Like a dream made into substance by the sheer power of desire. As though the Sherlock- shaped hole in his life had just filled itself out by absorbing him back from his thoughts and his heart and his memories.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there or how he moved but he found himself on his knees in front of this Sherlock shape. He put out a hand tentatively, not sure what to expect.

Thin air? An electric shock? A heart wrenching disappointment?

Waking up from a dream into another day when he could no longer remember why he continued to live?

And then his hand touched skin. On Sherlock’s face. The smooth skin that had made him hungry for contact for so long. So long.

It had been so near and yet so far away.

With movements as slow as in a dream, he touched his thumb to those lips.

_Married to my work_ these lips had said.

And here he was now. Fantasy made flesh and blood.

John was still not sure if this was real or a particularly spectacular hallucination.

_Was this the final explosion of his brain before it gave up on any pretence at surviving Sherlock?_

Had he crossed some kind of emotional threshold beyond which his brain was incapable of coping with reality?

Tears were streaming down his face.

‘Sherlock? Is that you?” he whispered. “I have missed you so much love. So much. Are you really back?’

And then Sherlock gently put his right hand on John’s face. That beloved face. Which had been the last thing he had looked at before he ‘died’.

“John,” he whispered and he put into that one name a lifetime of longing and desire and a begging for more.

“Oh Sherlock!!” gasped John. “Why??Why Sherlock?? WHY??WHY?” and then John pulled him close and kissed him till neither of them could breathe any more.

When they moved apart finally Sherlock spoke. “He threatened to kill you John. Moriarty had always said he would burn the heart out of me. He knew. That was you John. It’s always been you. I had to do it and I had to keep it from you to keep you safe. Can you forgive me?”

Sherlock’s eyes were so vulnerable and terrified that John's heart breaks more than he had ever thought possible.

“Oh Sherlock how could you imagine any universe where you are alive and with me and I am anything but ecstatic? Yes I am angry, very, very angry. A bit at you but mostly at……….. I don’t know what. Fate? Destiny? Life? Bloody Mycroft who surely knew?’

He bit his lip. “But not at you my love. Never at you.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock turned to look at him too. “Are we in a romantic relationship John?”  
> John felt a sudden ice cold trickle of panic in his chest. Was Sherlock re-considering?

He had no idea how they reached the bed and when they finally fell asleep, both of them fatigued beyond measure by the emotional upheaval and the overwhelming physical need to rest.

That morning John woke up in Sherlock’s bedroom to find the genius already awake and turned on his side, looking at him. John reached out a hand tentatively, trembling with fear that in the harsh light of day it would be revealed as a dream, but he touched skin, rough with stubble but oh so beautiful. It kept him for falling off the planet. It was rose petals and rainbows and wings. It was oxygen and life and meaning.

He couldn’t get enough of it.

Sherlock finally held his hand in his own and stilled it.

“Good morning John” he said softly and leaned over to kiss him on the lips.

He seemed to have been awake a while since John could smell toothpaste on his breath. He excused himself and quickly went to the loo and freshened up and came back in to slide under the sheets.

“Good morning love” he said equally softly and tenderly. This is the first time in two years that it had truly been a good morning. They stayed in bed all morning, still too exhausted for any other activities of daily living. Except kissing and cuddling. Obviously.

One hour later, Sherlock spoke. “Kissing is so wonderful John. Breathing is boring. I wish I could invent something that allowed me to kiss you without any pause. Some kind of an oxygen diffuser. Why didn’t we do this earlier? Why did I miss out on this for so long?”

“Married to your work, remember?!” _Idiot_ cursed John under his breath. But secretly he was thrilled.  This. This is what he had missed. The sheer ferocious passion with which Sherlock approached everything. Including being bored.

_As long as he doesn’t get bored of kissing._

But that was not looking likely.

“I wish I could absorb you into me through my skin. Or I could enter your skin and live inside you.”

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock!” John laughed. “Why do your romantic desires all sound like the zombie apocalypse?”

He loved it though. This madness, this sheer overwhelming insanity of this man. Sherlock was suddenly silent next to him.

John turned to look. “Sorry love I wasn’t laughing at you. I didn’t mean to…”

Sherlock turned to look at him too. “Are we in a romantic relationship John?”

John felt a sudden ice cold trickle of panic in his chest. _Was Sherlock re-considering?_

“I should bloody well think so Sherlock” he said carefully. Wondering where this conversation was headed.

“Are you going to send me soppy poems by email now?” Sherlock groaned in a mock complaint.

John laughed with relief. _It wasn’t over._ _He was going to have this. This madman, this love, this life._

“Keep dreaming.” he said. “For you it will only be chocolates and candlelight dinners and fluffy red heart shaped pillows.”

“And lots of kisses?”

“Lots and lots of kisses. And I am hoping that you are going to want to go beyond kisses at some point …soon”, said John with a cheeky grin.

.

.

Finally they were forced to get up and John was hungry and he was insisting on feeding Sherlock, who allowed him to pamper him and take care of him.

He simply could not keep his hands off his madman. It was like they were joined at the hips. Apart from using the loo, they moved together through the flat, like a slow dance of connection. Sherlock hugged him from behind when he was making tea. He held Sherlock in his arms when they got off the sofa. He helped him get up.

Later Sherlock pulled him down. They cuddled, they were holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, touching, feelings, patting, caressing, like newly married couples on a honeymoon but with an added edge of disbelief and terror that this could have been lost so easily and had been given as miracle.

A man- made miracle but a miracle nevertheless.

Just being able to run his fingers through his hair, kiss him wherever he felt like it –which was all the time, even in his sleep, being able to look at him without guarding is expression, feeding him, smiling, breathing, just being.

He had been desperately wanting to get his hands on all of this man from the minute he had turned up like magic in the living room.

.

.

That night when they had finally lay down facing each other and touching and looking, John had tentatively put his hand under the shirt and touched his stomach. Sherlock had trembled and John had apologised.

“No John it’s not you. It’s just….”

“Never mind love. It’s all fine. It is going to be fine.”

Sherlock looked at him and said “I want it too.”

John’s heart leaped at that. “Are you sure love? I don’t want you to do this because you think I want it. I mean I do. I do really want it. But only of you want it too.”

“I do John. But the last two years have been difficult. And there were things I had to do which…”and he looked way.

John’s heart sank... of course. The oldest bargaining chip in the word has always been the body.

He held Sherlock’s hand, suddenly angry, afraid and distressed. “Were you …hurt?”

_No_ Sherlock shook his head, not willing to speak.

“We will get you tested on Monday and use protection until then. If we need to. I am sorry love. I am so so sorry that you had to go through this. And that you did it alone.”

“I wished you were with me every minute of every day John. I spoke to you. I thought of you. I survived everything because I knew you were home and safe. I came to see you twice but I did not dare contact you. You know how dangerous Moriarty was. I simply could not take the risk.”

John wiped the tears pouring down his own face. “Oh Sherlock I love you so much. I don’t know what I have done to deserve you. Come here my love” and they spent some more time in passionate kissing and cuddling and simply rejoicing in the presence of the living breathing body of the person they loved. Safe and contented in their arms.

“I am still so angry with you for leaving me behind and not telling me.”

“I needed you to mourn convincingly John. You are too transparent. Also you would have tried to follow me and help me and would have most certainly gotten killed. I would willingly take your anger and any other punishment gladly if it meant that you were alive.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes love is so obvious it only needs to be acknowledged. Sometimes it is fragile and it has to be discovered. And sometimes it has to be given space to grow.

On the second afternoon John finally had to step out for some groceries. When he came back he woke Sherlock up and made tea for him.

“We need to tell some others that you are back”, he said.

“Yes” said Sherlock. “Mrs Hudson. And Greg.”

“Yes.” said John. He continued quietly. “Greg has been a very good friend to me while you were away Sherlock. We grew close.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply and John looked back at him calmly. Whatever Sherlock may have deduced he kept to himself.

“Why don’t you call him over for dinner day after tomorrow? Let us be in a safe space here when I tell him. I know how hurt he must have been.”

“Yes”. John replied. “He was hurt. And guilty. Remember he was the one who had to arrest you. He has spent the entire year reviewing the cases and clearing your name. He has had a very bleak time at work but he fought it all and relentlessly, to clear your name. It’s as though nothing else mattered.”

“You met often then?” asked Sherlock, voice flat, wanting to make the question sound casual.

John was not sure what he was really asking exactly and what the right response would be. But for Greg’s sake he needed to avoid any unpleasant revelations/ surprises.

“Yes we met regularly. The first year I visited your grave every week. He could not bear to come in but he would wait outside and we would then go to the pub. Sometimes we went out for dinner.” “Was it like…a date?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“Well, it was more like a lifeline Sherlock. We spoke of you. Sometime football but mostly only you. Memories, theories, unspoken, unfinished business.” John stopped before he said anything that was not his secret to share. “Now, why don’t you play the violin for me? I have missed it and you must have too.”

.

.

“Hoohoo”, Mrs Hudson said coming up the stairs a few minutes later. “I heard the violin dear! After two years. And I just wanted to see if you were feeling….”and then she opened her mouth and screamed and screamed and whacked Sherlock with her kitchen towel. “Oh you horrible, horrible boy! How could you do this to us? Oh come here you. Thank goodness. Oh what a wonderful miracle!!”

.

.

Later that day, after many pots of tea and many scones and biscuits, (it was as though Mrs Hudson was trying to feed Sherlock two years’ worth of food in one evening!) John called Greg.

“Come home for dinner tomorrow?”

“Home?” Greg asked in surprise. “You mean the flat? 221B? You haven’t called it home in two years……” his voice trailed off.

“Yes.” said John simply _. Home is where the heart is and my heart just came back to me._ “Will you come over at 7?”

.

.

Greg had had a spare key to 221 B and the front door ever since Sherlock had moved in, so he came up as usual and entered the flat around 7 pm. The living room was empty.

He was nervous today for some reason. There was something in the tone of John’s voice which had his sixth sense on high alert. In fact he had even bought a pack of cigarettes on his way over, simply out of stress.

And now he stood by the window wondering if he should light up, holding the cigarette in his hand. He glanced at the violin case lying there and wondered why it was out.

Just then he heard a voice he had never imagined he would hear again.

“Those things will kill you, you know”

_That voice! NO! It could not be. Could it??!_

He spun around his mind a blank. Sherlock?!! Sherlock Bloody Holmes!!!

“Oh you bastard!!” He pulled him close and hugged him. “What have you done Sherlock…Oh…Sherlock….Why??? Why? How??”

Sherlock made him sit on the sofa and started to tell him, explaining about Moriarty and the final problem and halfway through Greg suddenly realized, “Where is John?”

“He is inside. He wanted to give us time.”

.

.

Greg nodded. He cleared his throat uncomfortably at the memory of his evolving relationship with John and also the conversations and confessions.

_Bloody hell. The miracle the doctor had prayed for had been granted_. _But what now….._

Sherlock spoke up. “I died for him but you helped him live. You offered him the care I could not….”

Greg looked away awkwardly.

Sherlock continued, “Sometimes love is so obvious it only needs to be acknowledged. Sometimes it is fragile and it has to be discovered. And sometimes it has to be given space to grow.”

John was listening from inside the kitchen and felt as though his heart would burst with pride.

His Sherlock! Brilliant and now also sensitive. _How could anyone resist him?_

Greg gave Sherlock a sharp look, not sure where this was going. Sherlock slid off the sofa and gently kneeled next to Greg.

“It may not have been obvious from my behaviour because I did not allow myself to recognize it in my own heart, but I have always loved you Gregory Lestrade. I have always come to you when in trouble and you have always been there for me. You have been my sanctuary. You have been my refuge. You have saved me from myself. So many times. I would die for you. I did actually. You were one of the three people who would have been shot if I hadn’t jumped.”

John gasped. _He had not known that_. He came out of the kitchen and stood in the living room.

Greg looked up at him.

John was radiating joy from every pore of his being. He was just….. _more_ John. It was obvious that he had been merely a shadow of himself in the last two years. He realized why he had called the flat ‘home’ when he spoke to him yesterday.

But Sherlock was still talking. “You were married then Greg. And things were still confusing for me. When John came into my life things were different but I still didn’t understand what I felt. Didn’t do emotions. But that day when Moriarty said he had a sniper trained on you I knew I would move heaven and earth to save you. I knew that what I felt was love, pure and simple.”

He paused a beat. “I am sorry for what you suffered with your job and…”

“Get up you giant bloody idiot!” said Greg, his voice choked with emotions. “Suffered? Me??! Compared to what you must have gone through? Oh Sherlock….” and the grey haired DI was weeping openly. “I hope you know that I always believed in you? I felt terrible for my role in your ………your fall. I couldn’t forgive myself.”

Sherlock sat next to him and wiped away his tears.

“Greg? Listen to me Greg. You believed in me when I was a junkie living on the streets. You took me home, you fed me, you looked after me. You saved me. Not once, but many times over. You believed in me when there was no reason on earth to do so. Of course I know you did not betray me. It was all part of Moriarty’s plan. How could you ever betray me? You love me.”

Pause.

“Don’t you?”

John held his breath. This was unexpected. His mind flashed back to the last three days of bliss they had spent. Some kind of epic Ballroom of Love seems to have been unlocked in the genius’ Mind Palace.

_What would happen now?_

_._

_._

Greg seemed stunned by the question but his face softened. He put his hand to Sherlock’s face. He nodded. Unable to trust his voice.

“Greg” said Sherlock softly. “I need to hear you say it”

“I love you Sherlock. I always have.” Sherlock looked deep into his eyes and touched his face. But he called out to John and held out his other hand to him, knowing where he was standing.

“John…. I know that you and Greg have deep feelings for each other. I don’t know if that is love. It may have become if I had not returned? I know that you and I have not made any vows to each other and my heart belongs to you. But if you will allow me I do love Greg too.”

John’s heart was so full he had no idea that he was capable of so much love.

“Oi who are you and what have you done to my Sherlock?!” he said, laughing even as tears spilled out of his eyes. “Yes love, yes, I would not dream of stopping you. Your heart has probably belonged to him much before I had any claim on it.”

And then Sherlock held John’s hand and kissed Greg on the lips.

Chastely and softly and Greg felt the burden of the last two years fall off is shoulders and life was suddenly worth living again.

John rested his other hand on Greg’s shoulder and smiled.

They could do this. This could work.

All for one and one for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by some amazing stories involving these three men and often also Mycroft.   
> Somehow, despite my love for the most dangerous man in Britain, he didn’t turn up during this story. Must be busy stopping or starting a war. Maybe he will turn up later…….maybe he has been behind the scenes all along. Let me ask my muse :)
> 
> In the meanwhile if you want to enjoy more such stories please read   
> MezzaMorta’s Quartet series,   
> Sanguisuga’s Awakenings series https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022440/chapters/2034154  
> The Making Of by emmagrant01 https://archiveofourown.org/works/474757/chapters/823438#workskin  
> Bury the Sweet Street Slowly by hitlikehammers https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115643  
> And of you have any other recommendations do share in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> In mountain sports, especially climbing, a rope team is a group of mountaineers or climbers who are linked together by a safety rope. For this so-called "walking on a rope" everyone in the party attaches themselves to the safety rope at equal intervals


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